


warmth

by wearegoingtodie



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Blood and Injury, Derealization, Graphic Description, Knives, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, also rly short, be careful!!, big tw, descriptions of self harm, im projecting bc i self harmed today haha, kinda a bit, like just generally super fucked up thoughts kinda, unhealthy glorification of suicidal thoughts, vent fic as fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29598591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearegoingtodie/pseuds/wearegoingtodie
Summary: Pain is a welcoming feeling...
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	warmth

Pain was something to cling to, a physical feeling that ached but stayed and was clear as day, even when Ranboo didn’t remember things, even when the frustration of his actions he couldn’t remember built up. Pain stayed and ebbed and chipped away at the anger until it flooded in alone. It was warming and it was welcoming. Maybe that’s how he became addicted-or maybe in the dozens of wars he’d somehow gotten thrown into, the pain just became a coping mechanism. Whichever way it was, the pain was all-consuming and all too easy to use to cope. 

Pain could be so many things-a punishment, a reward, a way to remember and a way to forget. It was...everything. Ranboo was more than aware that using pain to cope wasn’t “normal” (but he lived with the ‘Blood God’, who, in himself, was not normal) but he didn’t particularly care. It worked, and it helped him, and wouldn’t it be wrong to deprive him of that? Wouldn’t it be cruel to steal the only thing that granted him freedom from the everlasting emotional pull of his life?

...That having been said, the action in itself was poetic. Glinting silver razor blades stolen from cheap plastic tools, swords stashed away, half-broken from wars long past, shitty pocket knives given to him by Philza (and when he used those, he couldn’t help but feel guilty). Red and black blood moving in sluggish pools down his legs, or his arms, watching it crystalize and form into scabs or watching it bleed until he felt lightheaded was addicting. It was a drug that he just couldn’t stop taking, and it was one he didn’t want to stop taking. 

He’d heard horror stories about ‘cutting’. About slicing through tissue and muscle and fat until the blade reached the bone, about horrifying scars and disgusting corpses discovered by uncaring and cold-hearted family members who stared upon the pale, cold faces of their children or siblings or parents with apathy. Ranboo thought it felt inviting. Thought that death seemed a step more welcoming than the cutting did, than the bruises or burns he could inflict felt. Death was the final destination, after all, so why not leap towards it with vigor?

Yes...why not?


End file.
